A Stranger Comes To Winterfell
by MyNameIsJeanValjeanAndImJavert
Summary: The Others are invading. The world is ending. Melisandre knows only one solution: She must send Jon Snow to the past- before the red comet, before the the War of the Five Kings, before the Others came. Jon knows only that he is in an impossible place, seeing dead faces. But if he does not succeed in his mission, all of Westeros is doomed.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N.**

 **Hello lovely readers! So here is my new fan fiction. I have to say, I'm not very confident about it, so let me know if you like it or not, and I'll judge whether to keep posting. I won't be updating very regularly anyway, since the school year is starting. Also, I've only read the books, not seen the show, so it should be somewhat behind on information. No spoilers please! :) Again, I have to say it's not very good, but it's fun to write. It would greatly appreciate it if y'all would review and let me know what you think!**

 **xoxo**

 **-S**

Jon Snow was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Whether he was a good one- well, history would determine that, wouldn't it? And nobody could know until his watch was done.

Of course, for Melisandre, the future wasn't always so unreachable. She knew that Jon Snow was concerned about letting all Tormund Giantsbane's wilding in, but he had done it today. The Night's Watch was suspicious and the wildings were suspicious, but so far no blood had been shed. Melisandre considered that a success.

She decided to look into the fires nonetheless. On such a momentous occasion, surely R'hllor would be generous in giving out knowledge.

She saw familiar images first: Stannis' face again, the silhouette of a dragon in flight, a crown falling to the floor. All she had seen before. Then something new, something strange and fearful: a terrible shadow, icy cold and creeping. Cruel blue eyes, unblinking. Men shouting and running, and fire burning, and children freezing. The Wall, being climbed by thousands of white figures, crawling over each other like ants, and swarming over the few men in black.

Melisandre knew with a certainty that such events were not happening a year in the future, or even a day, but now.

At last the vision ended. She stood up shakily, her eyes shut. Perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps she had seen it wrong. Perhaps-

A horn blew, and Melisandre felt fear. It blew a second time, and she felt dread. It blew one final time, cut off abruptly at the end, and she felt despair.

When human beings know with absolute certainty that they are going to die, they will stop being afraid- to a small degree. There's simply nothing left to lose.

Melisandre, shaking slightly, threw open her door and went to find Jon Snow. He was on the top of the wall, shouting commands to his desperate men. White things were beginning to congregate at the bottom of the wall, and the men's arrows and firebrands were doing nothing to hinder them.

Melisandre called out his name. To her surprise, her voice was calm.

Jon Snow looked at her, and then away, ignoring her and going back to his work. She grabbed his arm.

"I have no time for you, my lady," he muttered, throwing her off.

"Your brother was a king, was he not?"

"Aye,"

"And you have king's blood, and if-"

Jon merely walked away.

"If you do not listen to me, Jon Snow, then all hope is lost," said Melisandre. "Show me your burned hand,"

He stopped for a moment, and Melisandre realized quite suddenly that he was sixteen years old, and desperate, and alone. Jon came to a decision. "Be quick," he muttered.

She drew her dagger, flashing red in the light of the torches, and pulled it across his hand. Blood fell upon the treacherous ice of the wall.

Jon flinched back. "Now what, my lady?" he said angrily. "Will you fight off the horde with th-"

He stopped talking when the bloody dagger lit up in flame. Melisandre picked it up thoughtfully, examining it. She put a single hand on Jon's shoulder, her other holding the fiery blade.

"This might hurt," she said. Then she thrust it into Jon's stomach.

Farther down the wall, Satin saw Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the NIght's Watch, fall. He saw Melisandre's short dagger, alight in flame, held high above her head. He saw Melisandre crouch upon the ground, and speak to the dying man.

"Snow," Melisandre said urgently, pulling his face up. He had no strength to resist her. There was an awful pounding in his head, a rushing in his heart, a trembling in his limbs. "I am sending you back. It is your only chance, our only chance, the only chance for the entire race of men. You must save the old line, the true one. You must save the Night's Watch. You have to stop them. Get to the dragon queen, she will help you. But you must hurry. You must-"

He never heard the rest of her message. Instead his eyes shut, his head fell, and his heart stopped.

Satin found himself running towards the both of them, yelling of dark magic and murderers.

Melisandre gave him a contemptuous look, and leapt gracefully off the Wall.

By the time Satin reached Jon, all that remained of him was a black cloak.

OoOoO

Jon knew nothing for a moment except darkness. Then he opened his eyes and observed a familiar, snowy wood. Wincing, he managed to rise and stumble forward. He glimpsed something impossible, and then fell once more, into the fresh white snow.

OoOoO


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N. Hello readers! To my surprise, you guys actually quite liked this story (it's already more popular than my last one:D), and it was so very flattering I had to continue, haha. I think I'll try and update every weekend. I've already got a lot written, but it is disorganized and needs editing. I'll let you know, though, if I need more time on the next chapter because of school or whatever. Also I must say: thank you guys so, so much for reading this fic! It's so encouraging to know that people actually like reading my writing! Special thanks to Van der Ay, Emma, Keitzuro, carlita stoneheart, thunder 18 and birdy or reviewing- you guys are the best! Please review again and let me know what you think of this chapter :D I had a particular response to Aeldor too: ofc, thank you so much for reviewing and your comments were very thoughtful! Jon got sent back to around the start of the first book/season- just before the Baratheon train arrives at Winterfell. As for Ghost, you'll have to see :) And I haven't decided fully on Jon's alias yet. But seriously, these comments were a lot of help- thanks a bunch to you and all the reviewers!**

 **xoxo**

 **-S**

It was snowing in Winterfell. It was one of a set of recent summer snows, and it was disturbing Jory, the captain of the guard. Lots of summer snows meant a tough winter. In the north, one should always remember the Stark words: Winter is coming.

Perhaps some part of Jory's worrying was influenced by the fact that he was alone, outside at night. Winterfell was full of ghosts at night. Not that Jory considered himself to be superstitious, but still, there was nothing wrong with being careful.

Normally, one of the other guards would take the night watch, not Jory, the master of arms. But they had received word that the king and his family were coming, and Jory wanted to be the first to spot them so he could make sure everything went smoothly. There had been a rumor they would arrive by night, and though that seemed unlikely, Robert Baratheon was known for his night marches, wasn't he? Perhaps he wanted to revive his habit.

He had been there a few hours- almost time to go back in, another guard could take his place, surely the king wouldn't arrive this late- when he heard a noise. He couldn't tell what it was- some sort of shuffling against the snow- so he put one hand on the hilt of his sword, and called out into the darkness.

"Who goes there?"

He saw a black figure, ten feet from the gates, illuminated by the harsh light of the torches. It was a man, stumbling, making his way out of the trees and slowly towards the walls. He didn't seem to have heard Jory.

"You there! Are you friend or foe?"

The man below lifted his head slightly, and Jory caught a glimpse of jagged red scars across a face. Was the man wounded so badly he couldn't speak?

Jory got his answer a moment later when the man fell to the snow and didn't get up.

Jory swore, then called his men, as he was already unlocking the great gate and running to the fallen man. His pulse was strong, so perhaps he had only collapsed from exhaustion. Jory rolled him over, and swore again. The man's stomach was covered in blood. His face seemed familiar, and Jory thought perhaps he was one of the small folk, but his scars were distinctive and Jory had seen nothing like them before.

By then Jory's men were there, and they carried the man into Winterfell. Maester Luwin was woken and began his work, and promptly sent Jory out of the room.

Jory slowly returned back to the gates. Before he locked them, he saw something, glittering in the snow. Jory walked out into the silent night, and picked it up, examining it. It must have fallen from the wounded man's scabbard: it was a short obsidian dagger, shining black and red in the torchlight.

OoOoO

The man didn't wake for two days, and nothing much was learned of him meanwhile. He wore black garb, but Benjen Stark insisted he was not of the Night's Watch, deserter or not; and Benjen Stark could be trusted to know every face of the Watch. And no one seemed to recognize him, although he couldn't have come far- not with that wound. Strangely, when a few of the guards followed his tracks back to the woods, they simply stopped beneath a weirwood- as though he had appeared out of thin air. But the only sensible explanation was that he had been in the tree when it began to snow and had then hopped down, although why any man- much less a wounded one- should do such a thing was beyond most. Lord Ned simply shook his head and instructed the servants to care for him, and then went on preparing for the king's arrival.

The wrinkled, tiny woman known as Old Nan was watching him on the third day, and she related the tale to everybody else.

Apparently, he had only woken for a few minutes, and had spoken like a mad man, probably due to his fever. He muttered of death, and red gods and dragons and darkness and wolves and death. Some men, when in a fever, would mutter about sweethearts and childhood secrets, but it appeared this fever was of a darker disposition, or perhaps it was only the man. Then he had seemed confused, asking if she was dead, or if he was dead, when he was interrupted by Old Nan firmly thrusting a spoonful of gruel into his mouth.

"You need your strength," she had told him, getting another spoonful, at which ugly vision, he succumbed to sleep once more.

OoOoO

Jon woke suddenly the next day, with a clear head, as his fever had broken. He was not sure what of the last days was fever-dreams and what was real. The Others attacking had seemed real enough, as was Melisandre, and then he remembered falling into a snowy wood, and then he wasn't quite sure, only somebody had been tending him. He had tried to speak to them, but they didn't seem to notice. Everything was blurry, anyway, and the last thing he could really remember clearly was Tormund Giantsbane leading his wildlings through the wall.

He sat up, and immediately discovered that at least one part of his dream was true: there was an awful ache in his side, where Melisandre had stabbed him. At least someone had dressed his wound, and hopefully that meant that the world was not completely overrun by the Others. His room was empty, furnished only with a bed, chair and window-

He recognized this room. But that was impossible. Winterfell was sacked, ruined first by Theon Turncloak and then by Roose Bolton. Surely this room wouldn't have survived? Unless it wasn't as destroyed previously thought? But why was he in Winterfell in the first place?

He suddenly remembered that he had seen Winterfell last night, or however many days it had been since he had awoken. But he had seen it- the great castle, framed by the snowy wood.

Jon got up, wincing at the pain in his side. The old arrow wound in his knee was acting up too, and his burnt hand. Every part of him seemed to be hurting today.

He went to the window, and what he saw took his breath away: this was Winterfell at its greatest, Winterfell as it used to be. The wall stood powerful and tall, the doors were unblemished, and fresh snow coated the stone buildings. Jon even thought he heard a child's laughter far off. For a moment, he was back home again and all that had happened since he left: his family's deaths, the destruction of the realm, the invasion of the Others: was but a strange dream. All of it was imagined, and everything was alright again.

But then his side twinged, and he looked down and saw his hand: burnt and stiff still, months later. That was a reminder of the real world, of the real dangers, and of his duty. He must find out what he was doing here, what was happening at the wall, if the Others had been defeated or if the darkness was coming.


	3. Chapter 3

**A.N. Okie dokie, here's chapter three! I hope you guys like it! Thank y'all so so much for the amazing feedback- you guys are so sweet and I don't know what I've done to deserve it! Go ahead and review again! Also, please don't hesitate to point out mistakes I've made or things that could be improved- I'm here to learn and I'm always grateful. In response to a few comments: Yes, Ghost did come back with Jon, but he won't show up for a while. Also, Jon will eventually meet his past self, and he got sent back to the start of the books- just before the Baratheon train comes to Winterfell. Finally, Jon won't be recognized, at least not at first. Keep in mind that he is older, and scarred, and also that everyone would believe it to be impossible for him to be Jon, because they already have young Jon running around. Also, kudos to dangerousgames87, who caught me in a couple of mistakes. I'll edit them out later, and thanks for pointing them out :) Also IMPORTANT: schoolwork is a little more overwhelming than I'd thought, so I won't be able to update every weekend, and I probably won't next weekend. But I promise I won't abandon this story and will try and update regularly!**

 **Okay, sorry this got so long. On with the story!**

 **xoxo**

 **-S**

Arya was in a foul mood. First, she had been wrestling with Bran, and they had been having an excellent time, only she had tripped and gotten all snowy and muddy and had gotten a cold. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except Sansa had laughed at her, and her mother had scolded her, and Old Nan had insisted she stay inside until the weather improved, and poor Arya was very bored.

In a desperate search for indoor amusement, she had fallen to pestering Sansa, until Old Nan sent her out. Then Arya went to find her father- she had been sort of curious about the stranger, who had awoken yesterday for a few minutes, mostly because his scars sounded interesting. She had mentioned this to her father, but he had only laughed, and told her perhaps it would be too frightening for a young girl.

Which was sort of insulting. Arya was therefore on an expedition to go and see the stranger, and possibly wake him up and ask him questions.

They had put him in an empty room that used to serve as a servants' quarters, back when Winterfell still had a hundred servants and grand feasts every night. It was past the kitchen, so Arya stopped by to say hello to the cook and steal a pastry. Then, chewing on the remains of a blackberry tart, she made her way down the hallway and knocked once on the door. She waited a moment, and as there was no response, she cheerfully swung the door open.

To her surprise, the stranger was already awake, and standing by the window. He turned around abruptly, his hand on his sheath, and stared at Arya.

"Hullo," said Arya. "What's your name?"

He had a familiar face, but Arya couldn't quite place it. It was a grim sort of face, scarred and such, and almost afraid, which was strange, because Arya wasn't very frightening. "Um," said Arya, hoping the man would speak, but he remained silent and only flinched back when she spoke, as though something awful was happening.

"Are you alright?" asked Arya uncertainly. Perhaps the man was only mute, but he might be mad, or a criminal. Not that Arya was afraid, of course, the point of this entire enterprise was to prove that she wasn't.

The man only looked at her for a moment.

"Arya?" he said softly.

"Yes," said Arya, surprised. She was going to ask how he knew her, but this thought left her mind quickly when he drew his sword and pointed it at her.

"What witchcraft is this?" he said with a forced calm. Arya noticed that his hand was shaking slightly, although she was more preoccupied with the sword itself. "What, have you come from beyond the grave? Haven't I done enough? Answer me!"

"I'm.. I'm Arya Stark.."

The man started violently. "Don't use that name!" he said. "How dare you take-"

Arya did not hear the rest, as she turned on her heel and fled the room, calling for help from the guards. There's only so much bravery a girl of nine has.

OoOoO

To put it simply, Jon Snow was confused. He had awoken in his boyhood home, from those days when he used to play at swords with a boy who would become a king and a boy who would betray them all, when he used to chase about sisters who became hostages in a desperate war, when he used to make men out of snow and laugh, because he didn't know what the real men of winter like.

Then, a ghost had appeared. A ghost of a sister long-dead. A ghost who did not urge him on to revenge or death or whatever fate awaited him- a ghost who instead painfully reminded him of the time when he had had a sister, a young, grumpy little thing who would run into important meetings and interrupt conversations.

But a ghost nonetheless.

However confused, angry, grieved and afraid Jon Snow was (and at the moment he was feeling a lot of those things) he still had a soldier's instincts: instincts from all those years playing at swords, instincts from the training of the Night's Watch, instincts from all those days spent among the wildlings, instincts from those more recent days when he was leading a war against the darkness and the cold, and had to be constantly ready to leap to his feet and fight for his life.

And so when he heard the girl call for help, his instincts kicked in and he took stock of the situation. He was alone, among enemies, and wounded. There was a time when Jon Snow would have gone down fighting, but he had learned how to survive during his time on the Night's Watch. There was a difference between honor and stupidity, and Jon Snow knew it.

He looked around for escape, instead.


	4. Chapter 4

**A.N. Hey y'all! Thank you guys so much for reading, reviewing, and favoriting! You guys are all so sweet, so hugs and kisses to y'all! Let me know what you think of this chapter please. I'll update in the next couple of weeks. Oh, also let me know whether you'd prefer short chapters every week or longer chapters regularly.**

 **xoxo**

 **-S**

He could hear footsteps running up the stairs. He had a few seconds at most. Unfortunately, there appeared to be no escape for Jon. The window was perhaps forty feet above the ground and the room was bare, and the hallway had only one end, from whence his enemies were fast approaching.

Jon looked round the place, his mind working quickly. Memories rushed in without him acknowledging them- he remembered playing games here, hiding and running and searching for his brothers. Suddenly, Jon knew where to go.

OoOoO

Jory came into the room, followed by the blacksmith, who had happened to be talking with Jory when little Arya Underfoot came running up and informed them angrily that the stranger was mad- in both senses of the word- and armed, which Arya thought was _very stupid,_ and what kind of a captain of the guard brought armed, mysterious strangers into the house, anyway, and shouldn't he be doing something about it instead of listening to her talk?

So Jory, slightly amused and slightly annoyed, had gone to see whether Arya was telling the truth or not, and then presumably to apologize to the stranger for Arya bothering him, and then ask him to please not scare little girls. Jory felt a moment's slight discomfort when he remembered that he had disarmed the stranger. Where would he get a sword? They had put him in an empty room.

Which was, inexplicably, still empty. The stranger had vanished.

Jory sighed.

OoOoO

Meanwhile, Jon was perched confidently in the rafters, watching the room below him. It was getting harder and harder to tell himself this was not Winterfell. He knew this place. He remembered the pinewood smell of the rafters, the way they would tickle his skin as he would wait for Bran or Rickon to come into a room so Jon could leap down and scare them, long ago.

A man who resembled Jory- but could not be Jory, because Jory was dead- came into the room, followed by a man Jon vaguely recognized as a smith. Jon shrank back into the shadows silently, and watched. If only two men had come, he had a decent chance at escape, although only the gods knew what witchcraft and ghosts might be awaiting him outside.

The man who looked like Jory but was not sighed, and Jon felt a sudden, sharp pang of grief. He remembered that sigh, and that face, and that voice.

Perhaps this was a punishment for all he had done. For breaking his vows, for leaving behind his family to die, for failing the Night's Watch and all of Westeros and letting the darkness come. Perhaps the gods had seen fit for Melisandre to kill him in her madness, and send him to some dark hell, surrounded by ghosts who did not know him.

The blacksmith spoke. "Where in the name of everythin' holy did 'e go?" he asked. His voice was frustrated, but it sounded human. It sounded alive.

A reckless urge to leap down seized Jon. He had nothing left to live for, if he was even alive. Why not go down fighting?

There was another long sigh from the man who looked like Jory, and he would have spoken. But Jon gave in to his reckless, foolish, honorable impulse, and leapt down from the rafters, landing with a wince upon his feet. His sword was pointed directly at the impostor's heart.

Unbidden, the image of Ygritte came to his mind. He wondered if she was here somewhere, in this impossible world where the dead walked among the living.

Not-Jory did not move. He held his sword up, though. Then he spoke gently, as one does to a wild animal:

"Listen, son," he said slowly, "We don't want to hurt you, but you don't have any reason to go scaring little girls. Set down your sword, and we'll figure all this out. Mayhaps your brain is still scrambled by fever,"

OoOoO

Jory expected the man to set down his sword, or if he really was mad, to charge at them. Instead, he merely spoke, unmoving.

"Jory was a good man," he said, "you shame his memory by wearing his skin. Are you another of Melisandre's creatures?"

Jory glanced at the blacksmith, who seemed as confused as he.

"I'm nobody's creature," he said very slowly. Perhaps the man was simple-minded. "I serve Lord Eddard, o'course, but-"

He stopped talking. He was slightly distracted by the stranger charging him. Jory, having studied the art of dueling for years, had time to parry, but he had to admit this stranger was sword was merely an extension of his arm, and it was obvious he had good training. But Jory's enemy was wounded, which made him slow, and easier to hit. And he was reckless- he didn't seem to care for defending and parrying, only in slaying Jory. Which was disturbing, but convenient.

Jory had almost overpowered him when the blacksmith conveniently hit him over the back of the head, knocking him out.

"Ah," said Jory, sheathing his sword and looking at the crumpled body of his foe, "Thank you,"

"What should we do with him?" said the blacksmith, nudging the man with his boot.

"Lock him in the dungeons until Lord Eddard returns," said Jory wearily. It had been a long day.

OoOoO

When Jon awoke next, he saw nothing but darkness. He was lying on something cold and hard, and his hands were tied behind his back. He also possessed a massive headache and a healthy amount of pessimism.

If he squinted, he could see a thin line of grey light a few feet away. A door? He must be in some sort of cell.

Jon sighed. He was cold, and confused, and in mortal peril, and very, very tired.

OoOoO

After a few hours in this state, and Jon discovered he was also bored. Eventually, he fell asleep, and dreamed of wolves.


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N. Hello lovelies! The consensus seems to be that longer chapters are preferred to shorter ones. So, I'll update every few weeks, (sometimes more, sometimes less) and I'll try to keep each chapter around two thousand words. Also, I don't know what possessed me, but a strange idea popped into my head and I started writing a fan fiction about Hamlet. Lord knows why. But I figure this ought to take priority! Anyway, thank you so, so much for reading and reviewing- you guys are AMAZING. Let me know what you think of this chapter! It's got a lot of character interactions, which makes me think maybe I'm using the phrase "my lord," way too much. Also Arya is really fun to write.**

 **xoxo**

 **-S**

Lord Eddard Stark was in the library. It was not the most appropriate place to enact judgement on a madman-criminal, but Lord Eddard was tired, and if grandeur could intimidate the stranger, the library would suffice. If it couldn't, nothing else would.

He had a guard bring the prisoner food, and water to wash himself with, since he had been locked up in a cell for a day. According to the maester, the man was in some danger of his fever returning, so if he was judged innocent, he would need days of rest. If he was judged guilty, his health wouldn't matter for long.

Lord Eddard rubbed his temples slowly. Everything had been strange lately, since the death of Jon Arryn. It all felt as though it would reach a climax, and soon. Perhaps seeing his old friend Robert again would help.

There was an abrupt knock on the door, and the prisoner entered the room, a guard close behind. The prisoner was young, almost a boy, perhaps seventeen. His face was scarred and scowling, and one of his hands- tied behind his back- had been burnt and hadn't healed properly.

Lord Stark spoke. "Is your wound healed, or do you need a maester?" he said coldly.

The prisoner started at Lord Stark's voice, as though he had not expected him to speak. He looked afraid.

"I- my lord-" he stopped.

"Well?"

The boy's expression hardened. "I am fine," he said, and the 'my lord' vanished.

"And yet your wound is bleeding," said Lord Stark wryly, eyeing the small red spot on the boy's bandages. "You have torn your stitches. Peter, fetch Maester Luwin,"

Lord Stark did not notice the boy's facade crumble for a moment. Maester Luwin was here, Jon thought. Was he dead too?

The guard Peter eyed the prisoner. "My lord-"

"I think I can handle a wounded boy," said Lord Stark. "You may leave,"

"Yes, my lord,"

Lord Stark sighed, again. The guard left, and the prisoner kept staring at Lord Stark, who held his gaze. At last, the prisoner looked away.

"I'm not a boy," he said. Lord Eddard looked skeptic at that, but the prisoner didn't notice. He was now staring avidly at the floor.

"What's your name?" asked Lord Eddard abruptly. The prisoner looked up immediately, but said nothing. Lord Eddard felt a sudden rush of irritation. "Your name, boy," he said.

"No," said the nameless being in question.

Lord Eddard was beginning to think the fool really was mad. "Your name, or I'll send you to the Night's Watch, and you can spend the rest of your days out there,"

The prisoner looked confused. "The Night's Watch? But they.. How can.." he stopped, speechless. "My name is… my name is Samwell," he said at last. "Samwell Snow. I- I'm sorry I frightened the girl and dueled Jory, m'lord, I thought- but my- my mind was muddled by fever, I didn't know-"

"That will suffice," said Lord Stark. "The fever damages even the strongest of men. However, I will have our master examine you. He is quite skilled, and shall know if you are lying, and if so you will be judged and sentenced in accordance with the laws of the land,"

"And if not? My lord," said the prisoner, his expression impossible to read.

"Then welcome to Winterfell, Samwell Snow," said Lord Eddard.

OoOoO

Samwell. Jon didn't know why he had chosen the name. Perhaps it was because he was feeling rather craven, and Sam Tarly- well, he wasn't brave, exactly. Or at least he didn't used to be, after he got back from the Fist of the First Men he had changed. They all had.

But really, it was just the first name to pop into his mind. It was common enough, and as for Snow- well, illegitimate children of the North weren't very rare.

He supposed he should have guessed earlier. No sorceress could recreate Winterfell this perfectly. No dream could, either. But it was the Night's Watch that gave it away. There wasn't a Night Watch in the underworld, of that Jon was sure. Their duty was to guard the living realms of men.

Jon saw one solution. Somehow, that was the true Lord Eddard, and the true Arya, and the true Winterfell. Which, he realized with a shudder, meant others were alive too: Benjen, Qhorin, Bran, Rickon, Robb, Catelyn. Theon. Ygritte.

But he couldn't think about that now. He wasn't sure if he would ever be able to, but now, when his mind was clear, and he was left alone to rest in the little room again while the old master went off to report to Lord Stark- _his father, his father who was alive again_ \- now was the time to think and plan.

It must have been Melisandre, he decided. She was the only one powerful enough to do it- her and her strange red god. It made sense- there was no hope, from what he remembered, it was too late. So she had turned back time for him.

He wasn't sure why he was chosen, though. Or why it had to involve him being stabbed. What had Melisandre said? Something about going back. Something about the dragon queen. Something about saving the world from damnation.

Maester Luwin returned. Or the ghost of Maester Luwin, or the past of Maester Luwin. Whoever he was, the old man returned and told Jon Snow that he was being excused because of temporary madness, and that also he was still suffering trauma, and wounds, and fever, and that he would be safe if he would only be reasonable, and would drink this, please.

Jon drank, and found himself falling quickly asleep.

OoOoO

"It wasn't the fever, m'lord," said Jory angrily. He was standing in the library, in front of Eddard Stark. "He knew me, he said my name-"

"Jory," said Lord Stark calmly, "He might have heard it anywhere. He was hallucinating. You know what fever does- and Maester Luwin has found the signs of it,"

"Hmmph," said Jory.

"And you know," added in Maester Luwin, who was appearing from behind a shelf and causing Jory to jump wildly, "He had obviously been in some sort of fight. Paranoia is to be expected, and is aggravated by fever,"

"Do you even know how he got stabbed?" said Jory. "Why he was in a fight in the first place? How he got here? Seems to me all you know is his name,"

Maester Luwin and Lord Stark glanced at each other.

"You'll question him when he wakes, won't you Maester Luwin?" said Lord Stark.

"Yes, my lord," said Maester Luwin.

Jory threw his hands up in disgust and left.

OoOoO

Jon awoke to an annoyed voice, saying, "You aren't going to attack me again, are you?"

It was Arya, with dirt on her nose and messy hair, standing by the side of his bed.

Jon groaned and sat up, purposefully not looking at his sister. He couldn't deal with this right now, he had to get a plan, to figure things out, get his bearings.

"Are you?" said Arya again, and Jon almost laughed it was so familiar.

"No," he said instead. "Sorry. Can you leave?"

"You owe me an apology."

"I just gave you one,"

"A _proper_ apology,"

Jon hesitated. He couldn't interact with his siblings, couldn't get attached again. But he couldn't resist. "Fine," he said. "Arya Underfoot of House Stark, I apologize for attacking you and scaring you. I thought you were a demon,"

"First of all, I wasn't scared," said Arya. "Second, how did you know my name?"

"I can see the future," said Jon.

"Really?" said Arya, and Jon felt his heart miss a beat. She had been so innocent, so naïve, so ready to believe in heroes and villains and magic and fortune-tellers. "What's mine?"

Jon winced.

"Is it bad?" she asked, concerned.

"No.. it's fine.. wonderful.. you grow up and become a fine lady," he said.

"A lady?" Ary wrinkled her nose, disappointed.

"Yes," said Jon, "A lovely lady with a dozen different suitors, who spends all her time counting her dresses and her jewels," Arya had a look of abject horror on her face. "And embroidering," added Jon thoughtfully. "Lots of-"

"You're teasing me!" cried Arya in shock.

Jon laughed, for what felt like the first time in years.

OoOoO

"Ned?" called Catelyn softly.

"Yes?" he said, shuffling through papers on his desk.

"I trust your judgment, but I'd rather not have our daughter spending her time with mysterious strangers,"

"Hmm… Which daughter again?"

"Who do you think, Ned? Would you pay attention?" she said sharply. Ned looked up.

"What's going on?" he said.

"Well," said Catelyn, "Arya has now forgiven our intruder, and has taken a shine to him. She's currently listening to him tell outrageous stories about fighting giants. Did you even find out where he's from yet?"

"No," said Ned sighing. "Look, he's bed ridden and clearly ill. In a couple of days, we'll send him packing to wherever he came from. It's the law of hospitality, Cate,"

"I'm not saying we should throw him out," said the Lady Stark, "But I don't want an impressionable young girl like Arya hanging about him,"

"Alright then," said Ned. "You talk to her," He stood up and walked over to his wife, kissing her forehead. Then he left.

Catelyn smiled at the kiss, but frowned when he left. "Ned!" she called, but he had already gone.

OoOoO

Jory was in his room, sitting on his bed, examining the obsidian dagger her had found. It was a small room, and cramped, holding nothing much more than a bed, trunk, table and chair. Given his status, he could have had nicer quarters, but Jory didn't spend much time indoors.

There was something strange about the dagger, about the way it shone in the darkness but was black in the light. Jory had meant to show it to someone- Maester Luwin, perhaps- but instead he found himself simply looking at it, turning it over in hands, admiring the work. There were no carvings on it, so it couldn't be ceremonial, but it was too small to be very useful in a fight. This kind of dagger was meant to be used in treachery and stealth, to murder men in their beds or stab friends in the night. It gave Jory a bad feeling.

He got up, leaving the dagger on his bed, and went to the door. Then he stopped, went back, and hid it beneath his pillow, leaving again. Then he stopped once more. What was he doing? Jory was an honest man. He didn't have secrets, or not many. Why was he hiding it? He would show it to Maester Luwin now, he was sure.

He picked it up angrily, and was rewarded with a cut on his finger. He swore, and put it in his scabbard, and left.

OoOoO

Across the Sea, in the Free Cities, a marriage contract was being brokered for a young girl who would become the motjer. To the south, plots were being woven like a spider's web. In the Iron Islands, talk of rebellion was beginning in whispers. And up North, beyond the wall, the Others were stirring.

In the woods outside of Winterfell, the royal train made their way north. They kept watch in the night, their torches glowing in the darkness: there were rumors of a great white wolf, appearing and fading away in the darkness.

In a cold room in a stone castle, a woman called Melisandre had a vision, found her mission, and discovered that she had a most peculiar sense of deja vu.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys! First off, thanks a bunch to all my readers- I can't believe I've reached 150 follows! Thank you guys so much, especially reviewers! Special shoutout to the regular reviewers, y'all give me so much confidence and inspiration :D Second, sorry this chapter took so long! To be honest, I haven't finished planning this story out yet so writing is taking longer. I'll normally try and make chapters longer but I figured y'all deserved an update. Oh, another thing: I feel like my characterization of Theon is kind of weird- let me know what you think in the reviews! Finally, a few people were wondering why no-one recognized Jon, and I do have a few reasons: first, Jon is older and scarred (I always pictured him more scarred than he is on the show), so he looks pretty different, second, nobody actually expects him to be Jon. The third reason is there, and very convincing, but you'll have to wait to find out what it is because *spoilers* ;). Anyway, I love you guys and hopefully I'll update soon!**

 **xoxo**

 **-S**

Robb Stark, fifteen years old, heir to Winterfell and the North, who in another world was a dead king, was being pestered mercilessly by his young sister, Arya. She was bored, so naturally since he was doing something remotely enjoyable, she wanted in.

The remotely enjoyable activity was playing with swords. That wasn't what Robb and Theon and Jon called it when they practiced, of course, but that was what is was. They weren't really fighting, or even training, after all. When Theon and Robb and Jon or sometimes Arya hit each other with swords in the snow, laughing and leaping about, there was none of the fear of real battle, and none of the gravity of real training.

But even children become warriors one day, and games soon become battles.

Arya was whining about not having a partner while Theon and Robb sparred. Theon laughed and Robb ignored her, and Jon indulgently volunteered. He had always had a soft spot for Arya. But after a while, he said he was going to see Maester Luwin about something, and left, and Arya sulked, staring enviously at Theon and Robb mock-dueling in the yard. When Robb lost his concentration, footing, and dignity in a single clever move by Theon, Arya laughed loudly.

"I can't focus if you're going to keep staring," said Robb crossly, sitting up from where he'd fallen.

"You can't focus at all," said Theon cheerfully, offering Robb a hand.

"Hmmph. Why don't you run off to the madman, Arya? Go listen to his stories. As for you, _Theon Greyjoy_ , I think a rematch is in order,"

Theon only laughed. Arya furrowed her brow.

"He's not mad," she said. "I'd say he's smarter than you, too. _And_ he's interesting, and he always has time for me, and I bet he wouldn't have let Theon beat him, either,"

"I sincerely doubt it," said Theon. "But let's see this accomplished stranger, shall we?"

Theon was, of course, wildly curious about the visitor Samwell Snow, who told stories of giants and witches, and was scarred curiously, and was apparently good at swordfighting. But his pride required him not to say so directly. Robb agreed to go as well, pretending to be sore from his fall. But really, the both of them were still young boys who liked to hear a good story.

They found him in the library. Or, Arya found him in the library, as the other two had lagged behind slightly, and were still coming up the man called Samwell Snow was pouring over a thick tome on a dusty table, with other papers scattered about him. One hand was turning a page and the other was rubbing his temple, as though he had a great headache. He looked up, startled, when Arya came in, cheerfully running about and knocking various stacks of paper over.

"What are you reading?" she said. The book was very thick, but there was an interesting illustration at the top of the left page. It looked rather like a person made of fire.

"A treatise on the Red God R'hllor and his followers," said Samwell Snow, shutting the book briskly. The cover had a flame engraved upon it. "Very dull,"

"If it's dull, why are you reading it?"

Samwell looked at Arya. "Information," he said cryptically. Arya was going to press him further when Theon entered the room, talking over his shoulder to Robb, who was behind.

There was a flurry of action immediately. Theon saw Samwell and smiled. Samwell saw Theon and dropped his book. Then he reached into his scabbard and, in a single fluid motion,leaped up and pinned Theon against the wall opposite the door, Samwell's sword at his throat.

This all happened very quickly. Arya had not even had time to cry out, and then Robb was in the room, standing in front of the doorway, behind the other three.

As much of a boy as he was, Robb Stark of Winterfell was not a coward. He drew his sword and spoke roughly to Arya: Samwell had not noticed him, it seemed, and Theon was rather busy.

"Get behind me," he said, his face stern. "You- drop your sword," he added to Samwell.

Theon saw all that happened next. He was in a convenient place to observe, really. He had walked into the room and see a look of complete fury cross the stranger's face, and suddenly he was against a wall, a sword lightly touching his throat.

For whatever reason, the stranger did not kill Theon immediately. He had been looking at Theon, his face screwed up in hatred. But he did not kill. Then Robb had entered, in the stranger's face changed suddenly again, going white. He dropped his sword immediately, and turned away from Theon, who slipped away from Samwell's grip. Staring at Robb, who still held his sword and looked rather confused, the stranger spoke.

"Your Grace," he said, in awe. It seemed as though he was about to go on one knee, but stopped himself.

Arya looked at Robb, who looked at Theon, who looked at Arya.

"What?" said Theon finally, rubbing his throat lightly.

Samwell looked at Theon, awkwardly.

"Oh.. um.. sorry.. I thought you were someone else," said Samwell.

"Clearly," said Theon, his pulse slowing. "Do you make it a habit of shoving people against walls?" he added.

"You surprised me," said Samwell. Arya, who had been sort of frozen earlier, snickered.

"Look," said Robb, "Can I drop the sword, or are you going to attack us again?"

"You can drop it," said Samwell, going rather red. "And I didn't attack all of you, only him," He nodded toward Theon.

"I have a name, you know," said Theon.

"We all have names," said Arya, "Perhaps we ought to use them. This is Samwell Snow, you two,"

"I'm.. Robb," said Robb, after a silent moment where he, Samwell, and Theon all stared at Arya. He replaced his sword in his scabbard. "Look, is there a reason you called my Your Grace? I'm hardly a king,"

"I'm actually more curious as to why you tried to kill me," said Theon. "I feel that's rather more important."

"Sorry," said Samwell. He was pointedly not looking at Theon or Robb. "Battle reflexes," he said after a moment. "And, um, you sound like a king," he directed at Robb.

Apparently, this explanation was sufficient for the two boys. Later, thinking on it, they must have realized they took to the stranger rather quickly after his murder attempt. It was strange they didn't notice anything wrong at the time, but sorcery is funny like that.

"Oh. Alright," said Theon, wondering absently if the man was some sort of scarred soldier. He seemed too young to have fought in Robert's rebellion, or Balon Greyjoy's. Perhaps he was from the free cities.

"How did you get battle reflexes?" said Robb, who was apparently thinking the same thing.

"Practice and not dying," said Samwell Snow. "After a while, you get used to moving quickly. It's useful,"

"But it does create delicate social situations," said Theon. Samwell laughed, and after a moment, the others were laughing too.

OoOoO

"Let me get this straight," said Jon Snow, after hearing Theon speak excitedly of their new visitor while they sat in the loft of a tower, "He started your meeting by almost killing you, but he's a nice person, really,"

"I didn't say nice, did I?" said Theon indignantly. "I said interesting. He taught Arya a new feint, she almost beat Robb. And he told us about the Red God's cult. Apparently they have blood sacrifices. He said it would be good for us to know,"

"Hmm," said Jon, raising an eyebrow. "What did you think of him, Robb?"

"I don't know," said Robb, which was really the only reasonable response. "I mean, I don't think he's going to attack again.. He's seems alright, I suppose. Interesting, sure. Very strange. I don't think he liked Theon,"

A bitter voice came from the entrance, where Arya stood. "I don't think anyone _likes_ Theon," she said. "You know, he said he thought you were somebody else, but it seems to me he recognized you,"

"What would you know about it?" said Theon dismissively. "I don't care if he's strange. He's good with a sword, and he's not trying to kill me anymore. He's alright,"

"Perhaps I should meet him," said Jon.

OoOoO

Jon Snow met the person called Samwell Snow later that day, in the evening. They passed in the corridor, and Samwell stared at Jon in surprise.

"Is something wrong?" said Jon, disconcerted.

"No.. it's just.. I thought you were taller," said Sawmill Snow. He sounded almost disappointed, but then he walked away very quickly, leaving Jon Snow, more than a little surprised, in his wake.


	7. Chapter 7

**…** **hello guys! first of all, massive apologies for leaving you hanging so long (just like George RR Martin did to all of us.. *side eyes*). I've been pretty busy with schoolwork, and I can't promise I'll update quickly, but I won't abandon you. And thank you guys, so so much, for reading this story and reviewing! You're amazing. All of you.**

 **Anyway, I'm not super happy with this chapter : / It's a little weird and confusing and short, because I wrote it over a few months. I sincerely apologize because it's mildly terrible. If y'all have any ideas/comments/thoughts, review and I will worship you eternally.**

 **Thanks, sorry, hope-you-like-this-even-though-it's-kinda-awful,**

 **xoxo**

 **-S**

The king was coming. Jon- that is, Samwell- learned it at dinner. It was all anyone spoke of, as his group had been spotted on the King's Road. A messenger had even been sent ahead, to inform Lord Stark that they would be arriving the next day.

Jon excused himself as soon as possible. Master Luwin was trying to interrogate him, and wasn't being overly subtle, and besides, he had a lot to think about. Everything was happening too fast. What was he supposed to do- did Melisandre want him to stop Lord Stark going south? Did she want him to warn the Night's Watch, instead? How could he do either? It wasn't as though he trusted Melisandre, or as though he could ask. She was probably dead, or had no memory of him.

There was the matter of his family, also. He had tried to prepare himself for this, after he realized the situation. He told himself that this wasn't _really_ his family, that his family was dead, that he would need to be cold and unattached, if he wanted to survive.

And then Theon had come in to the library, laughing and making his jokes, and all he had felt was pure rage. He had been stupid, impossibly stupid, in springing at Theon.

It wasn't as if he didn't have cause. Theon had betrayed them all, wrecked Winterfell, led to the deaths of Bran and Rickon. But there had been something strange about how he felt, in those moments before Robb came in. The anger he felt- it wasn't his own, really. It was almost like it was someone else's. When Jon was angry, he was ice: unyielding, furious, brutal and bitter. Reckless, sometimes. But never so filled with rage, never so wild and vengeful and _destructive_. Jon was ice, but what he had felt in the library, that was fire.

He had intended to kill Theon, of that he was sure. Despite all the terrible consequences that would inevitably follow, he had looked Theon in the eyes, the knife at his throat, and had felt a savage joy rise in him. _It is beginning_ , he had thought, though forgotten it later. But then Arya had let out a sharp cry, and Jon realized suddenly that Theon, had been his brother, too. He remembered growing up together, the two outcast boys at Winterfell, the unwanted son and the hostage, laughing and fighting and learning, and he hesitated. The strange, wild anger began to ebb.

Perhaps he would have killed him anyway, even without being pushed on by the fire inside of him. He had every right to. But his head was aching, and his thoughts were murky, and in an instant Robb had come into the room. The fire disappeared entirely, replaced by the ache in his chest he thought he had gotten rid of. Instinctively, he dropped his sword and turned, and saw his brother.

He had said something stupid then, calling Robb by a title he did not have, and then he was fumbling around with explanations, trying frantically to explain why he was behaving like a madman. Then, by some miracle, he fell into a sort of conversation- a banter like of old, when they were three boys, none dead or lost or traitors.

It was pleasant, Jon observed from the small part of his mind that was actually focused on the conversation. The rest of him was somewhere else, thinking about impossibilities and ghosts, and something very important that he couldn't quite remember.

OoOoO

Melisandre was riding North. She despised it. She felt as though she were running away from the sun.

But duty called. Away she must ride, or see all her plans crumble to dust.

She had been watching Jon Snow carefully, as he was an important player. He seemed to not remember much, and everything had been going well. His identity was hidden- how she was not sure- and he had been trying to find out something, but that was all she knew, until he encountered Theon Greyjoy.

She had been watching, then, despite the strange hour. She had felt the upsurge of anger, but it was not enough for her purposes, so she let him taste the Red God's wrath: he flew at the traitor, and Melisandre smiled. In a moment, Theon Greyjoy would be dead, and Balon Greyjoy's rebellion would never begin. The Starks would turn against Jon, and cast him out, at which point Melisandre would call him to King's Landing, and stop the war before it began. All was under control.

But then he had hesitated, just long enough to make Melisandre realize what was happening, and then it was too late, and she had lost her hold on him. His mind was blurred, but it would be back to normal in a moment, and all her carefully laid plans had gone awry because a foolish boy was being cowardly. Or merciful, depending on your perspective, but Melisandre wasn't the forgiving sort.

And now, damn him, he was growing suspicious. If the guard showed him the dagger, they might even discover its powers. Then the inhabitants of Winterfell would stop, and wonder why they had been so welcoming to the stranger who had come- why they trusted him so innately. There would, perhaps, be questions, and then answers. Things might go in a direction no-one expected. Sorcery would certainly be found, sorcery of the darkest kind- the kind that manipulated the mind into thinking things that weren't true, and manipulated the heart into loving things that weren't right.

But not all was lost. King Robert was still heading to Winterfell and history was still progressing in its natural order. Melisandre could save it all, if she could interfere at convenient moments. Convincing Stannis hadn't been difficult, the man was naturally bloodthirsty. Convincing Robert would be easier, he hated the Targaryens. But for that, she had to be at Winterfell.

OoOoO

Arya was bored. Very, very bored. She was not at all interested in the royal family. They had been at Winterfell for four miserable days, and nothing had happened. The princess and youngest prince were dull, the older one was mean, the queen superior. Arya rather liked the king, but it wasn't as though she could talk to him.

Her mother, apparently, thought it was Arya's duty as a gracious hostess (Sansa had snorted discourteously at that) to interact with the princess, as they were close in age, and so Arya was stuck sitting primly drinking tea while Sansa chattered with Jeyne Poole and Princess Myrcella stared vacantly.

Arya only looked glumly into her tea cup. She would be here for another half hour at least: Jeyne and Sansa would never stop chattering, and her mother wouldn't let her leave until the princess did, and courtesy forbid the princess leave during conversations.

Myrcella shivered, and Arya stared at her.

"Is it always this cold?" asked Myrcella.

"Yes," said Arya rudely. She was feeling defensive of Winterfell, especially since she might have to leave it soon anyway. At her sister's glance, however, she thought better:

"I mean, sometimes, Your Highness. Do you mind the cold?"

"Oh, it's dreadful, don't you think?" Myrcella gave a small, nervous laugh.

Arya was spared from answering when Sansa interrupted with a gasp.

"Gracious!" she said. "What _is_ going on outside?"

A great clamor had arose. Arya, ignoring Sansa's huff, ran to the window. Men, bearing the bright Baratheon banner were dismounting from horses, being assisted by some of Winterfell's men. They were a force of some twenty men, led by a tall, stern man and a woman dressed very impractically in a flowing red gown.

OoOoO

Eddard Stark accompanied the king out to meet his brother.

Stannis had been shouting orders to his shivering men, and barely glanced up when the most powerful man in Westeros approached him.

"Stannis," said Robert, bewildered but welcoming. "What has brought you here?"

"You didn't get my message, then," said Stannis. He glanced up at the towers in front of him with distaste.

"No," said Robert simply.

Stannis let out a long sigh. "Robert- I bring bad news,"

"Get on with it, then,"

Stannis bent a single knee, and all his men around him did the same. A hush fell over the yard.

"My king," said Stannis. "The time has come for you to take up the sword again,"

Behind Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, Eddard Stark raised an eyebrow.

Stannis, serious, unemotional Stannis, looked the king in the eye with something akin to fear.

"Dragons," he said. "Dragons have returned to Westeros,"


End file.
